Polly, The Staring Dolly
On my eighth birthday, I got a present that would change my life forever. It was a beautiful doll that looked a lot like me. That is why my grandmother bought it for me. I named her Polly. However, days after I got the doll, things began to get weird, but I didn’t notice.
I slowly became unsocial, never having kids over. All I needed was Polly to make me happy. She was my best and only friend. I just went to school, and came home daily. I never bothered to make friends, or talk to teachers. I even stopped trying in school. I had been a perfect student until I got the present. Nobody really noticed, though, so I didn’t mind.
After about a week of having Polly, I stopped eating real food. I just didn’t feel right eating normal food, so I would always go out to the backyard (we lived in a forest area), after telling my mom I wasn’t really hungry that night, and find some woodland creature to hunt and kill for dinner. My mom didn’t notice me not eating much, until week three. She even took me to the doctor a few times, asking about what was wrong with me. The doctor always had the same answer. I was at a healthy weight and was not sick. After our third visit to Dr. Cortez, my mom decided I was fine and just going through a “stage” as she called it.
After a month of having Polly, my mom noticed me sleeping in my closet instead of my usual place: my bed. And when she would come to check on me, not only would I be in the closet, but Polly would be in my bed. I would also sleep with my eyes wide open. My mom just ignored it, also saying it was a “stage”.
Three months later, I got a haircut. I wanted a bob, and that is what I got. The creepy thing was, after I got my haircut, Polly’s hair started to fall out. It only stopped when her hair was exactly like mine. My mom then knew things were not right with the doll, but I would not part with it because Polly was my friend. She was the only one who understood me.
My mom also told me that when she was about to fall asleep, she would find Polly right next to her bed. Polly would stare at her intently. My mom would put her back in my room, but always find Polly in the same spot when she went back to bed. Eventually, my mom ignored it. I now know that Polly was checking to see if my mom was still awake.
After almost a year, things got stranger. My skin, hair, and eyes started to turn a glowing green. This resulted in another doctor visit, but he said there was nothing he could do. This, my mom finally decided wasn’t a “phase”. She watched me as much as possible. She even quit her job, a crazy move for a single mother, so she could home school me and make sure nothing happened to me.
Then the worst night of both of our lives happened. My mom woke up in the middle of the night, after hearing the backdoor open and slam shut. She ran outside, after noticing that I wasn’t in my bed, and neither was Polly. Once outside, she spotted us immediately. We were walking towards the lake, hand in hand. She ran after us, and was almost too late. Polly was leading me into the water, clearly trying to drown me. Polly turned her head, all the way around, towards my mom. She smiled a sick, malevolence grin that sent shivers down her spine. My mom knew she had to act now, before it was too late.
She ran to me and grabbed my hand, but I pushed her away. She fought until she had me, struggling, in her arms. She placed me in my bed, and locked me in. She sat there, trying to comfort me. I was hysterical. Then, we heard the tapping. We looked at the window, and found Polly standing there staring at us, with her evil green eyes. My mom opened the window, and grabbed her. My mom ran out of my room and threw Polly in the fireplace.
It was on my tenth birthday when I got the courage to ask my mom what Polly was doing, and what had happened to me. She said that my grandmother got Polly for free, from a woman that seemed crazy. Her daughter died days before she got rid of the doll. My mom showed me the research she did, and it turned out that the previous eight owners of the doll were all killed in various ways. The first killed was one year old, the second was two years old, the third was three years, the fourth was four years, the fifth was five years, the sixth was six years, the seventh was seven years, and then there was me. I was the only one to survive.
I am fine now, after much counseling and bed rest, unlike the unlucky seven girls who came across Polly the staring dolly, which is what my family has called her to this day.
Credited to Connie and Lauren.
The Lady Behind the Door
It was night and two guys in a classic car traveled down a lonely stretch of I-95 in Pennsylvania. The one in the passenger seat had a pensive look about him. The driver reached down to fiddle with the radio. They slowly pulled ahead of me. Squinting through the darkness and the bug-dotted windshield of my eight year old Isuzu I observed a blue bumper sticker with the words in white “Hilary ‘08” on it. “God damn it. I hate those guys.”
Gabe looked at me inquiringly, still rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. “You mean guys who look like they’ve been pulled out of some teen drama on basic cable?”
“Huh? No. Guys who leave bumper stickers up from previous elections. For fuck’s sake Hilary didn’t even win the primary.”
“Where are we anyway?” Gabe stretched out until his hands touched the car roof. Admittedly that wasn’t that much of a stretch, he was one of those shaggy looking wiry fellows.
“Just out of Jersey. You think you can help me stay awake? The Blush Twins back there aren’t much of a help.” My sister Prissy and her friend Claire were passed out in the back seat. When they drank more than they were used to they had the tendency to turn as red as tomatoes. That limit was two glasses of red wine.
Gabe mumbled something that sounded like “alcohol camels” and responded, “Yea sure. There’s not much to talk about though, Jack.”
“Well it’s night and Halloween is a day away. You ever seen anything that could be considered paranormal?” That was always a good topic if two people need to stay awake through the night. I did not even need to worry about a “no.” Even the most logical human being has had that one weird experience, whether it was a bad trip or one of those waking nightmares experienced during sleep paralysis.
“Well, uh, no. But I swear to God, Jack, this one time when I was five I remember flying. This isn’t paranormal, but I had this one reoccurring nightmare back before my father left. Haven’t had it recently, but I remember it pretty clearly.
“I was about eleven and remember lying in bed listening to a shouting match in the living room. My bed room was on the second floor, so I couldn’t make out exactly what they were saying except for the occasional ‘Fuck you.’
“Then I dunno, time passed, I fell asleep. The hall lights were out and the screaming stopped. The doorway to my room was half open. Next thing I know I can’t move, not even blink. But I could see things moving on the walls, man. It was trippy.” Gabe was rubbing that scraggly blond thing on his neck he called a beard as he told his story.
“Don’t stop there. What kind of things?” I said.
“Shadows, man, shadows. But not like those stories on the internet. They had hair, like people hair. They were flat to the wall except for the hair. It was like the hair was three dimensional and the rest of them was two dimensional. They had different color hair too. I mean black and brown, normal people colors, but some of them weren’t people shapes. They did have people hair though, they all did. I could hear—
“I could hear them say, ‘Carry on my waywar—” The radio turned on without warning. Prissy had left the damn thing on at max volume, the girls in the back stirred with a bunch thrashing thumps.
I shut the radio off. “Sorry about that, my elbow must of hit the dial.”
Gabe gave me a weird look before he went on. “I was saying I could hear whispering and felt tingling on my toes. It felt like when a dog licks your toes. That’s when I saw it, the big it, or her, I really don’t know. All I know is that thing was the boss and all the rest of them were the bitches, ‘cause they all scattered off to the corners. She had really red hair, Christmas present red, and curly too. Its thin shadow was stretching out from behind my bedroom door.
“I didn’t hear her voice, dude, I felt it. Not like telepathy, like felt it reverberate in my skull. Almost as if it were that loud nagging voice in your head when you’ve done something real bad. She said, the voice in me said, ‘Dear—
“John on DVD this Friday at Wal-Mart.” Blared the radio again.
I shut it off again. “I guess I should get that looked at, sorry. Go on.”
Gabe went on, “It said, ‘Dear soul, you have grown so much. Why you’re so pink and cute, how’d you like to come home with me? I could just dress you up with gravy. Look at those crinkles on your forehead you look just like a juicy jelly donut. The powdery dough is always the best part of a fresh baked donut.’
“I didn’t see a hand, but it felt like she pinch my cheek. Then the licking would not stop!” Gabe pounded the “would”, “not”, and “stop” out on the passenger side of the dash board.
If I had not been focusing on the road ahead of me Gabe would of seen the wide eyed bewildered look in my eyes. It was not over the dream, I have had weirder. The bewilderment extended from the clearly unresolved issue that were clearly bubbling beneath Gabe’s Chewbacca-like surface. “It was just a dream, Gabe. I’m sorry I asked. Relax, I‘ll drive the rest of the night. One of the girls can take over in the morning.”
The night after our chat in the car we spent the night in some shit motel in northern Georgia. In the morning we found Gabe’s feet up in a garbage bin behind the Waffle House next door.
(Credited to Tower.)
During my childhood my family was like a drop of water in a vast river, never remaining in one location for long. We settled in Rhode Island when I was eight, and there we remained until I went to college in Colorado Springs. Most of my memories are rooted in Rhode Island, but there are fragments in the attic of my brain which belong to the various homes we had lived in when I was much younger.
Most of these memories are unclear and pointless– chasing after another boy in the back yard of a house in North Carolina, trying to build a raft to float on the creek behind the apartment we rented in Pennsylvania, and so on. But there is one set of memories which remains as clear as glass, as though they were just made yesterday. I often wonder whether these memories are simply lucid dreams produced by the long sickness I experienced that Spring, but in my heart, I know they are real.
We were living in a house just outside the bustling metropolis of New Vineyard, Maine, population 643. It was a large structure, especially for a family of three. There were a number of rooms that I didn’t see in the five months we resided there. In some ways it was a waste of space, but it was the only house on the market at the time, at least within an hour’s commute to my father’s place of work.
The day after my fifth birthday (attended by my parents alone), I came down with a fever. The doctor said I had mononucleosis, which meant no rough play and more fever for at least another three weeks. It was horrible timing to be bed-ridden– we were in the process of packing our things to move to Pennsylvania, and most of my things were already packed away in boxes, leaving my room barren. My mother brought me ginger ale and books several times a day, and these served the function of being my primary form of entertainment for the next few weeks. Boredom always loomed just around the corner, waiting to rear its ugly head and compound my misery.
I don’t exactly recall how I met Mr. Widemouth. I think it was about a week after I was diagnosed with mono. My first memory of the small creature was asking him if he had a name. He told me to call him Mr. Widemouth, because his mouth was large. In fact, everything about him was large in comparison to his body– his head, his eyes, his crooked ears– but his mouth was by far the largest.
“You look kind of like a Furby,” I said as he flipped through one of my books.
Mr. Widemouth stopped and gave me a puzzled look. “Furby? What’s a Furby?” he asked.
I shrugged. “You know… the toy. The little robot with the big ears. You can pet and feed them, almost like a real pet.”
“Oh.” Mr. Widemouth resumed his activity. “You don’t need one of those. They aren’t the same as having a real friend.”
I remember Mr. Widemouth disappearing every time my mother stopped by to check in on me. “I lay under your bed,” he later explained. “I don’t want your parents to see me because I’m afraid they won’t let us play anymore.”
We didn’t do much during those first few days. Mr. Widemouth just looked at my books, fascinated by the stories and pictures they contained. The third or fourth morning after I met him, he greeted me with a large smile on his face. “I have a new game we can play,” he said. “We have to wait until after your mother comes to check on you, because she can’t see us play it. It’s a secret game.”
After my mother delivered more books and soda at the usual time, Mr. Widemouth slipped out from under the bed and tugged my hand. “We have to go the the room at the end of this hallway,” he said. I objected at first, as my parents had forbidden me to leave my bed without their permission, but Mr. Widemouth persisted until I gave in.
We were on the second story of the house, but it was on a hill, and from this angle the drop was farther than two stories due to the incline. “I like to play pretend up here,” Mr. Widemouth explained. “I pretend that there is a big, soft trampoline below this window, and I jump. If you pretend hard enough you bounce back up like a feather. I want you to try.”The room in question had no furniture or wallpaper. Its only distinguishing feature was a window opposite the doorway. Mr. Widemouth darted across the room and gave the window a firm push, flinging it open. He then beckoned me to look out at the ground below.
I was a five-year-old with a fever, so only a hint of skepticism darted through my thoughts as I looked down and considered the possibility. “It’s a long drop,” I said.
“But that’s all a part of the fun. It wouldn’t be fun if it was only a short drop. If it were that way you may as well just bounce on a real trampoline.”
I toyed with the idea, picturing myself falling through thin air only to bounce back to the window on something unseen by human eyes. But the realist in me prevailed. “Maybe some other time,” I said. “I don’t know if I have enough imagination. I could get hurt.”
Mr. Widemouth’s face contorted into a snarl, but only for a moment. Anger gave way to disappointment. “If you say so,” he said. He spent the rest of the day under my bed, quiet as a mouse.
The following morning Mr. Widemouth arrived holding a small box. “I want to teach you how to juggle,” he said. “Here are some things you can use to practice, before I start giving you lessons.”
I looked in the box. It was full of knives. “My parents will kill me!” I shouted, horrified that Mr. Widemouth had brought knives into my room– objects that my parents would never allow me to touch. “I’ll be spanked and grounded for a year!”
Mr. Widemouth frowned. “It’s fun to juggle with these. I want you to try it.”
I pushed the box away. “I can’t. I’ll get in trouble. Knives aren’t safe to just throw in the air.”
Mr. Widemouth’s frown deepend into a scowl. He took the box of knives and slid under my bed, remaining there the rest of the day. I began to wonder how often he was under me.
I started having trouble sleeping after that. Mr. Widemouth often woke me up at night, saying he put a real trampoline under the window, a big one, one that I couldn’t see in the dark. I always declined and tried to go back to sleep, but Mr. Widemouth persisted. Sometimes he stayed by my side until early in the morning, encouraging me to jump.
He wasn’t so fun to play with anymore.
My mother came to me one morning and told me I had her permission to walk around outside. She thought the fresh air would be good for me, especially after being confined to my room for so long. Ecstatic, I put on my sneakers and trotted out to the back porch, yearning for the feeling of sun on my face.
Mr. Widemouth was waiting for me. “I have something I want you to see,” he said. I must have given him a weird look, because he then said, “It’s safe, I promise.”
I followed him to the beginning of a deer trail which ran through the woods behind the house. “This is an important path,” he explained. “I’ve had a lot of friends about your age. When they were ready, I took them down this path, to a special place. You aren’t ready yet, but one day, I hope to take you there.”
I returned to the house, wondering what kind of place lay beyond that trail.
Two weeks after I met Mr. Widemouth, the last load of our things had been packed into a moving truck. I would be in the cab of that truck, sitting next to my father for the long drive to Pennsylvania. I considered telling Mr. Widemouth that I would be leaving, but even at five years old, I was beginning to suspect that perhaps the creature’s intentions were not to my benefit, despite what he said otherwise. For this reason, I decided to keep my departure a secret.
My father and I were in the truck at 4 a.m. He was hoping to make it to Pennyslvania by lunch time tomorrow with the help of an endless supply of coffee and a six-pack of energy drinks. He seemed more like a man who was about to run a marathon rather than one who was about to spend two days sitting still.
“Early enough for you?” he asked.
I nodded and placed my head against the window, hoping for some sleep before the sun came up. I felt my father’s hand on my shoulder. “This is the last move, son, I promise. I know it’s hard for you, as sick as you’ve been. Once daddy gets promoted we can settle down and you can make friends.”
I opened my eyes as we backed out of the driveway. I saw Mr. Widemouth’s silouhette in my bedroom window. He stood motionless until the truck was about to turn onto the main road. He gave a pitiful little wave good-bye, steak knife in hand. I didn’t wave back.
Years later, I returned to New Vineyard. The piece of land our house stood upon was empty except for the foundation, as the house burned down a few years after my family left. Out of curiosity, I followed the deer trail that Mr. Widemouth had shown me. Part of me expected him to jump out from behind a tree and scare the living bejeesus out of me, but I felt that Mr. Widemouth was gone, somehow tied to the house that no longer existed.
The trail ended at the New Vineyard Memorial Cemetery.
I noticed that many of the tombstones belonged to children.
The Shoe Tree
"Are we there yet?"
The words every father expects to hear. Invariably, at every ten-minute interval, my eight-year-old daughter Cynthia, would peel her face from the car window and ask the same question. And dutifully, I would respond, “Almost, sweetie.” We had been driving for almost two hours (which should give you an idea of how much I’d had to put up with) to drop Cynthia off at her mother’s. Lisa and I had been divorced for about three years, and doggedly, she still demanded to see Cynthia for a month every Christmas. Now, Lisa wasn’t exactly Mother of the Year material, but hell—I’m no angel myself. I’m thirty-seven, I smoke, and have a nasty penchant for cursing like a sailor. But dammit, I love Cynthia, and it still kills me every time I drop her off for that dreaded month of December.
Needless to say, I was in no hurry to get to Lisa’s, and so this year decided to take an old backwoods route. I figured it would be a good chance to show Cynthia the beauty of nature while squeezing out a little bit more time with her before I had to leave her for four and a half weeks. She was so engrossed by the passing scenery that she would only ask the periodic “Daddy, what’s that?!” or “Are we there yet?” before replacing her round little face on the passenger-side window. And I would indulge her every question, explaining “It’s an old grain silo, sweetheart,” or “Almost, dear.”
After a while, I flicked on the radio for some quiet background noise, and began to slip into the quiet, meditative trance induced by long-distance driving. However, my calm was soon disturbed by a shriek from Cynthia. Slamming on the brakes instinctively, I brought the car to a lurching halt, looking over at Cynthia. “What is it? Cynthia, what’s wrong!?” I asked, panicking. My mind raced with all the things that could go wrong—heart attack, pulmonary edema, kidney failure (all of which outlandish, seeing as Cynthia was perfectly healthy); but Cynthia just kept staring out the window, transfixed by whatever was out there.
As I looked past her small, childlike head, I began to see what had elicited the shrill scream.
It was an enormous white birch tree in the middle of a snowy field. Now, aside from the unusually large size of the tree (birches don’t usually grow much bigger than a foot in diameter, this one had to be at least four or five), something else struck me as odd about the leaves of the tree. It was a good distance into the field (about thirty yards) and I was still looking from behind Cynthia’s head (which was firmly plastered to the window at this point), but I could just barely make out the shape of the leaves themselves. It didn’t even register at first, but after looking carefully, I realized that the leaves of the tree weren’t leaves at all… they were…shoes. Hundreds of them. Hanging from the branches by the laces, every shape and size imaginable. I slowly opened the door and stepped out to get a closer look. The sheer size of the tree was impressive, and the spread of its branches was unbelievable. By a rough sizing-up, I guessed there to be about six or seven hundred pairs hanging all in all, some from even the smallest branches. I began to walk around the front of the car, unable to take my eyes off the bizarre spectacle before me. Then, without warning, I heard the other door open, and Cynthia shot off toward the tree, giggling with childish laughter.
Now, aside from the fact that this was a field, in the middle of nowhere, it was also the dead of winter. So as Cynthia ran off toward the tree, wearing just a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, my first reaction was to go get her coat (Lord knows she wouldn’t put it on, even if it was fifty below). I turned around to grab her snow jacket from the car, and when I turned back, coat in hand, to yell at Cynthia to wear it… she was gone.
My eyes searched the snow frantically for her, tracing her footsteps directly to the tree’s base. “Cynthia!” I called. I heard a girlish giggle in response. “Cynthia, we don’t have time to play games!” I took a step towards the tree, and as the snow crunched underfoot, I heard her giggle again, unmistakable. “Cynthia, come here right this instant!” I shouted, my voice becoming slightly more hoarse. To my immense relief, she revealed herself, dashing out from behind the shoe tree. But there was something off about her, something I couldn’t quite put my—
She was barefoot. “Fine, Daddy, I’m here! Do we have to go? The tree is so warm and nice!”
I grabbed her by the shoulders, shaking her small frame, nearly trembling from fear, “Cynthia, where are your shoes?”
Nervously, she answered, “The nice man told me to take them off, Daddy—look, he gave me a pretty necklace!”
My heart sank to the pit of my stomach. Sure enough, there, around my daughter’s neck, was a small heart-shaped pendant. I clenched my jaw, grabbed the pendant, and snapped it off.
"Daddy? What’s wrong?"
"Cynthia, I need you to get back in the car, and stay there. Now."
"But Daddy, my sho—"
"NOW, Cynthia. Get in the car, and lock the doors. Don’t open them for anyone, until I tell you so, okay?"
"Okay… if you say so…"
Cynthia walked off nervously towards the car, throwing glances back at me over her shoulder. I watched every step she took until she finally got in, and locked the doors. Then I turned to confront this “nice man”. Whatever sick fuck set up this little sideshow attraction, I wasn’t about to allow him to go around luring little kids in with cheap baubles just so he could get his rocks off. I followed Cynthia’s tracks straight toward the tree, until it loomed before me, larger than life. It was then that I noticed something about the shoes: they were all children’s. Not a single pair larger than a kid’s size 7. I shuddered and placed my hand on the tree for support.
To my shock, it was warm to the touch. I peeled back some of the papery bark to get a closer look at what might be causing this phenomenon, and was surprised to see what looked like initials carved in. Now, that wouldn’t have been terribly unusual, were it not for the fact that right next to those initials were more. And next to those, even more. As I peeled back more and more of the thin, waxy bark, I discovered dozens of initials carved in, then hundreds. I took a step back. I began to get an uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach, the twisting, wrenching knot that forms when you know something’s wrong. I glanced back up at the shoes, and the knot tightened. I saw Cynthia’s sneakers dangling there, like tiny little cadavers, dangling languidly by their laced entrails.
Thoroughly creeped the fuck out at this point, I turned and ran the fuck back to the car, my breath forming heavy clouds in the sharp, cold air. I grabbed my key, unlocked the driver’s-side door, got in, and locked it behind me. I turned to Cynthia and asked her, “Are you okay sweetie? Did anyone hurt you, or touch you?”
"No, Daddy, I’m fine! Mr. Smiles is funny, he makes me laugh. He’s got a funny face!"
That knot in my stomach twisted and squeezed, sending icy tendrils of fear creeping up toward my heart. “Who’s Mr. Smiles, Cynthia?”
Cynthia remained wordless as her eyes slid to the backseat. My heart froze solid as I slowly turned my gaze to follow hers. It lounged casually back there, only barely human. Bony talons, clasped neatly together, protruded from underneath the rotting flesh of its fingers. Its “funny face” was a mass of decaying skin, stretched tight over its bleached white skull. The corners of its mouth had sloughed away, leaving only a sickening grimace permanently etched beneath its eyeless sockets. The grotesque smile widened, and it reached into a jar at its side, grasping a tiny piece of candy between its decrepit fingers.
"Care for a piece of candy?"
I stared, frozen with terror, as Cynthia’s hand reached out and snatched the candy from its clutches, and began unwrapping it. The creature’s eyeless gaze seemed to shift to meet my own horrified stare, its disgusting grin widening ever so slightly. I tried to scream, but curiously, found that I couldn’t. Funny, I hadn’t even noticed his other hand creeping up my neck. A creeping chill entered my veins as his icy talons clutched my throat. Warm blood spilled down my chest as my last breaths wheezed through the freshly torn hole in my neck. Cynthia looked at me curiously, suckling innocently on that piece of candy. Her voice echoed around me as I spiraled down into darkness.
"Daddy? What’s wrong? Daddy…? Daddy…"
So do any of you remember those Mickey Mouse cartoons from the 1930s? The ones that were just put out on DVD a few years ago? Well, I hear there is one that was unreleased to even the most avid classic disney fans.
According to sources, it’s nothing special. It’s just a continuous loop (like Flinstones) of mickey walking past 6 buildings that goes on for two or three minutes before fading out. Unlike the cutesy tunes put in though, the song on this cartoon was not a song at all, just a constant banging on a piano as if the keys for a minute and a half before going to white noise for the remainder of the film.
It wasn’t the jolly old Mickey we’ve come to love either, Mickey wasn’t dancing, not even smiling, just kind of walking as if you or I were walking, with a normal facial expression, but for some reason his head tilted side to side as he kept this dismal look.
Up until a year or two ago, everyone believed that after it cut to black and that was it. When Leonard Maltin was reviewing the cartoon to be put in the complete series, he decided it was too junk to be on the DVD, but wanted to have a digital copy due to the fact that it was a creation of Walt. When he had a digitized version up on his computer to look at the file, he noticed something.
The cartoon was actually 9 minutes and 4 seconds long. This is what my source emailed to me, in full (he is a personal assistant of one of the higher executives at Disney, and acquaintance of Mr. Maltin himself):
"After it cut to black, it stayed like that until the 6th minute, before going back into Mickey walking. The sound was different this time. It was a murmur. It wasn’t a language, but more like a gurgled cry. As the noise got more indistinguishable and loud over the next minute, the picture began to get weird. The sidewalk started to go in directions that seemed impossible based on the physics of Mickeys walking. And the dismal face of the mouse was slowly curling into a smirk.
On the 7th minute, the murmur turned into a bloodcurdling scream (the kind of scream painful to hear) and the picture was getting more obscure. Colors were happening that shouldn’t have been possible at the time. Mickey face began to fall apart. his eyes rolled on the bottom of his chin like two marbles in a fishbowl, and his curled smile was pointing upward on the left side of his face.
The buildings became rubble floating in midair and the sidewalk was still impossibly navigating in warped directions, a few seeming inconcievable with what we, as humans, know about direction. Mr. Maltin got disturbed and left the room, sending an employee to finish the video and take notes of everything happening up until the last second, and afterward immediately store the disc of the cartoon into the vault. This distorted screaming lasted until 8 minutes and a few seconds in, and then it abruptly cuts to the mickey mouse face at the credits of the end of every video with what sounded like a broken music box playing in the background.
This happened for about 30 seconds, and whatever was in that remaining 30 seconds I haven’t been able to get a sliver of information about. From a security guard working under me who was making rounds outside of that room, I was told that after the last frame, the employee stumbled out of the room with pale skin saying “Real suffering is not known” 7 times before speedily taking the guards pistol and offing himself on the spot.
The thing I could get out of Leonard Maltin was that the last frame was a piece of Russian text that roughly said “the sights of hell bring its viewers back in”. As far as I know, no one else has seen it, but there have been dozens of attempts at getting the file on rapidshare by employees inside the studios, all of whom have been promptly terminated of their jobs.
Whether it got online or not is up for debate, but if rumors serve me right, it’s online somewhere under “suicidemouse.avi”. If you ever find a copy of the film, I want you to never view it, and to contact me by phone immediately, regardless of the time. When a Disney Death is covered up as well as this, it means this has to be something huge.
Get back at me,
I’ve yet to find a copy of this, but it is out there. I know it.
The Russian Sleep Experiment
Russian researchers in the late 1940s kept five people awake for fifteen days using an experimental gas based stimulant. They were kept in a sealed environment to carefully monitor their oxygen intake so the gas didn’t kill them, since it was toxic in high concentrations. This was before closed circuit cameras so they had only microphones and 5 inch thick glass porthole sized windows into the chamber to monitor them. The chamber was stocked with books, cots to sleep on but no bedding, running water and toilet, and enough dried food to last all five for over a month.
The test subjects were political prisoners deemed enemies of the state during World War II.
Everything was fine for the first five days; the subjects hardly complained having been promised (falsely) that they would be freed if they submitted to the test and did not sleep for 30 days. Their conversations and activities were monitored and it was noted that they continued to talk about increasingly traumatic incidents in their past, and the general tone of their conversations took on a darker aspect after the 4 day mark.
After five days they started to complain about the circumstances and events that lead them to where they were and started to demonstrate severe paranoia. They stopped talking to each other and began alternately whispering to the microphones and one way mirrored portholes. Oddly they all seemed to think they could win the trust of the experimenters by turning over their comrades, the other subjects in captivity with them. At first the researchers suspected this was an effect of the gas itself…
After nine days the first of them started screaming. He ran the length of the chamber repeatedly yelling at the top of his lungs for 3 hours straight, he continued attempting to scream but was only able to produce occasional squeaks. The researchers postulated that he had physically torn his vocal cords. The most surprising thing about this behavior is how the other captives reacted to it… or rather didn’t react to it. They continued whispering to the microphones until the second of the captives started to scream. The 2 non-screaming captives took the books apart, smeared page after page with their own feces and pasted them calmly over the glass portholes. The screaming promptly stopped.
So did the whispering to the microphones.
After 3 more days passed. The researchers checked the microphones hourly to make sure they were working, since they thought it impossible that no sound could be coming with 5 people inside. The oxygen consumption in the chamber indicated that all 5 must still be alive. In fact it was the amount of oxygen 5 people would consume at a very heavy level of strenuous exercise. On the morning of the 14th day the researchers did something they said they would not do to get a reaction from the captives, they used the intercom inside the chamber, hoping to provoke any response from the captives they were afraid were either dead or vegetables.
They announced: “We are opening the chamber to test the microphones step away from the door and lie flat on the floor or you will be shot. Compliance will earn one of you your immediate freedom.”
To their surprise they heard a single phrase in a calm voice response: “We no longer want to be freed.”
Debate broke out among the researchers and the military forces funding the research. Unable to provoke any more response using the intercom it was finally decided to open the chamber at midnight on the fifteenth day.
The chamber was flushed of the stimulant gas and filled with fresh air and immediately voices from the microphones began to object. 3 different voices began begging, as if pleading for the life of loved ones to turn the gas back on. The chamber was opened and soldiers sent in to retrieve the test subjects. They began to scream louder than ever, and so did the soldiers when they saw what was inside. Four of the five subjects were still alive, although no one could rightly call the state that any of them in ‘life.’
The food rations past day 5 had not been so much as touched. There were chunks of meat from the dead test subject’s thighs and chest stuffed into the drain in the center of the chamber, blocking the drain and allowing 4 inches of water to accumulate on the floor. Precisely how much of the water on the floor was actually blood was never determined. All four ‘surviving’ test subjects also had large portions of muscle and skin torn away from their bodies. The destruction of flesh and exposed bone on their finger tips indicated that the wounds were inflicted by hand, not with teeth as the researchers initially thought. Closer examination of the position and angles of the wounds indicated that most if not all of them were self-inflicted.
The abdominal organs below the ribcage of all four test subjects had been removed. While the heart, lungs and diaphragm remained in place, the skin and most of the muscles attached to the ribs had been ripped off, exposing the lungs through the ribcage. All the blood vessels and organs remained intact, they had just been taken out and laid on the floor, fanning out around the eviscerated but still living bodies of the subjects. The digestive tract of all four could be seen to be working, digesting food. It quickly became apparent that what they were digesting was their own flesh that they had ripped off and eaten over the course of days.
Most of the soldiers were Russian special operatives at the facility, but still many refused to return to the chamber to remove the test subjects. They continued to scream to be left in the chamber and alternately begged and demanded that the gas be turned back on, lest they fall asleep…
To everyone’s surprise the test subjects put up a fierce fight in the process of being removed from the chamber. One of the Russian soldiers died from having his throat ripped out, another was gravely injured by having his testicles ripped off and an artery in his leg severed by one of the subject’s teeth. Another 5 of the soldiers lost their lives if you count ones that committed suicide in the weeks following the incident.
In the struggle one of the four living subjects had his spleen ruptured and he bled out almost immediately. The medical researchers attempted to sedate him but this proved impossible. He was injected with more than ten times the human dose of a morphine derivative and still fought like a cornered animal, breaking the ribs and arm of one doctor. When heart was seen to beat for a full two minutes after he had bled out to the point there was more air in his vascular system than blood. Even after it stopped he continued to scream and flail for another 3 minutes, struggling to attack anyone in reach and just repeating the word “MORE” over and over, weaker and weaker, until he finally fell silent.
The surviving three test subjects were heavily restrained and moved to a medical facility, the two with intact vocal cords continuously begging for the gas demanding to be kept awake…
The most injured of the three was taken to the only surgical operating room that the facility had. In the process of preparing the subject to have his organs placed back within his body it was found that he was effectively immune to the sedative they had given him to prepare him for the surgery. He fought furiously against his restraints when the anesthetic gas was brought out to put him under. He managed to tear most of the way through a 4 inch wide leather strap on one wrist, even through the weight of a 200 pound soldier holding that wrist as well. It took only a little more anesthetic than normal to put him under, and the instant his eyelids fluttered and closed, his heart stopped. In the autopsy of the test subject that died on the operating table it was found that his blood had triple the normal level of oxygen. His muscles that were still attached to his skeleton were badly torn and he had broken 9 bones in his struggle to not be subdued. Most of them were from the force his own muscles had exerted on them.
The second survivor had been the first of the group of five to start screaming. His vocal cords destroyed he was unable to beg or object to surgery, and he only reacted by shaking his head violently in disapproval when the anesthetic gas was brought near him. He shook his head yes when someone suggested, reluctantly, they try the surgery without anesthetic, and did not react for the entire 6 hour procedure of replacing his abdominal organs and attempting to cover them with what remained of his skin. The surgeon presiding stated repeatedly that it should be medically possible for the patient to still be alive. One terrified nurse assisting the surgery stated that she had seen the patients mouth curl into a smile several times, whenever his eyes met hers.
When the surgery ended the subject looked at the surgeon and began to wheeze loudly, attempting to talk while struggling. Assuming this must be something of drastic importance the surgeon had a pen and pad fetched so the patient could write his message. It was simple. “Keep cutting.”
The other two test subjects were given the same surgery, both without anesthetic as well. Although they had to be injected with a paralytic for the duration of the operation. The surgeon found it impossible to perform the operation while the patients laughed continuously. Once paralyzed the subjects could only follow the attending researchers with their eyes. The paralytic cleared their system in an abnormally short period of time and they were soon trying to escape their bonds. The moment they could speak they were again asking for the stimulant gas. The researchers tried asking why they had injured themselves, why they had ripped out their own guts and why they wanted to be given the gas again.
Only one response was given: “I must remain awake.”
All three subject’s restraints were reinforced and they were placed back into the chamber awaiting determination as to what should be done with them. The researchers, facing the wrath of their military ‘benefactors’ for having failed the stated goals of their project considered euthanizing the surviving subjects. The commanding officer, an ex-KGB instead saw potential, and wanted to see what would happen if they were put back on the gas. The researchers strongly objected, but were overruled.
In preparation for being sealed in the chamber again the subjects were connected to an EEG monitor and had their restraints padded for long term confinement. To everyone’s surprise all three stopped struggling the moment it was let slip that they were going back on the gas. It was obvious that at this point all three were putting up a great struggle to stay awake. One of subjects that could speak was humming loudly and continuously; the mute subject was straining his legs against the leather bonds with all his might, first left, then right, then left again for something to focus on. The remaining subject was holding his head off his pillow and blinking rapidly. Having been the first to be wired for EEG most of the researchers were monitoring his brain waves in surprise. They were normal most of the time but sometimes flat lined inexplicably. It looked as if he were repeatedly suffering brain death, before returning to normal. As they focused on paper scrolling out of the brainwave monitor only one nurse saw his eyes slip shut at the same moment his head hit the pillow. His brainwaves immediately changed to that of deep sleep, then flatlined for the last time as his heart simultaneously stopped.
The only remaining subject that could speak started screaming to be sealed in now. His brainwaves showed the same flatlines as one who had just died from falling asleep. The commander gave the order to seal the chamber with both subjects inside, as well as 3 researchers. One of the named three immediately drew his gun and shot the commander point blank between the eyes, then turned the gun on the mute subject and blew his brains out as well.
He pointed his gun at the remaining subject, still restrained to a bed as the remaining members of the medical and research team fled the room. “I won’t be locked in here with these things! Not with you!” he screamed at the man strapped to the table. “WHAT ARE YOU?” he demanded. “I must know!”
The subject smiled.
"Have you forgotten so easily?" The subject asked. "We are you. We are the madness that lurks within you all, begging to be free at every moment in your deepest animal mind. We are what you hide from in your beds every night. We are what you sedate into silence and paralysis when you go to the nocturnal haven where we cannot tread."
The researcher paused. Then aimed at the subject’s heart and fired. The EEG flatlined as the subject weakly choked out, “So… nearly… free…”
Little Bear and the Big Red Book
I don’t know how to start this…but I’ll try.
My brother was in film club when we were in high school and, after lots of begging, I was too.
We were assigned once to make an animation.
When we came home that day, my brother was acting strange and said, in a low voice, that he needed to start on his animation immediately. He went upstairs to his room without any further conversation. He stayed in his room almost the entire week. Leaving only to use the bathroom, eat, and go to school. I was worried and so were our parents, but we decided to leave him alone.
I still wonder to this day why we decided to do that.
About three or four days before the animation was due, he was finished. I asked to see it, but he said no, even when I offered to let him see mine. He said that it was a surprise for everyone in film club. Then he smiled at me. The creepiest smile I have ever seen.
Then came the day the animations were due.
There were about 6 kids in film club (Including my brother and I.) and, since we were asked by the club director, each of us brought one friend. My brother asked to go last, saying that his was too long to show at the beginning. A lot of the animations were funny, and a few were abstract.
Then there came my brother’s.
The animation started with some static which cleared to a while screen. Everyone inched closer seeing that the best was, obviously, saved for last.
Boy, were they wrong.
The white faded to something I faintly recognized, a screen shot of an opening title card from Little Bear. A show we used to watch when we were kids. Then the title appeared which read, in very crude handwriting, Little Bear and the Big Red Book. The animation started like a normal Little Bear episode. Little Bear was out in the yard playing fisherman. Then he stopped and said that he wondered if Father Bear would like to go fishing the next day. He ran inside to ask. Father Bear was sitting at the table, a big red book open before him. Father Bear looked very sad and somewhat angry. Little Bear did not notice and asked Father Bear the question he wanted to ask him. Father Bear gave no response, but stood up and walked out of the house without a word. Little Bear looked disappointed for a second. Then climbed into Father Bear’s chair and began to read the red book. A voice that wasn’t Little Bear’s, or anyone in the show’s for that matter, started to read disturbing poems. As the voice read on, Little Bear got more and more depressed looking, everything except the book slowly faded to grayscale, and the voice got more and more high pitched.
The club director tried to turn off the projector, but it wouldn’t turn off.
Suddenly, everything stopped, and it cut to Mother Bear tucking Little Bear into bed. Little Bear looked extremely shocked with a blank expression and staring as us. His eyed were extremely bloodshot and his fur was all mangled. The whole scene, except Mother Bear and Little Bear, was hyper-realistic. Mother Bear turned off the light and left the room. Little Bear started to sing slowly as the room got more and more dark.
My Bonnie lies over the ocean,
My Bonnie lies over the sea,
My Bonnie lies over the ocean,
Oh, bring back my Bonnie to me.
A pair of red eyes appeared above Little Bear, a terrifying laugh played. Then what looked like some monstrosity of a creature jumped onto Little Bear. The entire screen cut to white. Then it slowly faded to a montage of different scenes of running water. A little boy’s voice, joined by my brother’s, was singing the same song Little Bear was singing. But with the added lyrics:
Bring back my Bonnie,
Bring back my Bonnie,
Bring back my Bonnie to me, to me.
Bring back my Bonnie,
Bring back my Bonnie,
Bring back my Bonnie to me.
Then it faded to a picture of me when I was a child, standing next to a grave with my mother’s name on it, and a picture of her under it. And, mind you, my mother is still alive today. The screen then cut to black. The projector finally turned off. And that was the end of it.
Everyone was shocked. The club director asked everyone to leave except my brother. My best friend and I went to my house to discuss the movie.
“I don’t know how or where he got that picture of me standing next to my mom’s grave.” I had told him. He looked at me, confused.
“No.” He said. “That picture was of ME standing next to MY mom’s grave.”
We were both freaked out. We asked my friend’s parents if he could spend the night. (To which they said yes.) We spent the rest of the night talking about the movie. The next day was Saturday, and my mother told us that my brother was sent to a mental hospital. The Monday we came back to school we found out, during an assembly, that the other 4 kids in film club and the other 5 kids that were visiting committed suicide after killing their mothers and that the film club director quit.
When I came home that day, I found that my bother was put in jail with 18 accounts of murder and 1 account of public disturbance. He will never be let out.
I decided to keep this a secret for so long but now, I’m afraid, that I have to let it out. Some one somehow found that animation and has put it on the internet on an unknown website under the title Little Bear and the Big Red Book **never before seen episode** in some sick hope that it will traumatize little children. If you find it, please contact the website IMMEDIATELY and have it taken down.
Thank you for taking your time to read this.